It's Late

This is not a professional post.

This is me saying it's late and I've had coffee and I have exams soon.

I'm scared of writing because I don't like telling you what I think.

Every time I have a good idea it's on a bus with no wifi.

This is an excuse for me being lazy.

I'm trying trying trying trying because I want you to love love love me.

I'm tried. I'll be back soon. I want to finish this story first because I never finish anything. 

I'm Just A Woman, Standing In Front Of A Blog, Asking People To Love Her

It’s been a very, very long time since I did this. Not as long as it could be; it hasn’t been years, or decades. But it has been months, and I find that really bloody annoying. It’s been a long time since I’ve sit down and actually written, and because it’s been so long, it’s been much harder to start. I can count about twenty hours worth of bus journeys where I’ve sat and wracked my brains desperately for something funning, or interesting, or witty to write about and every idea I’ve come up with has then been shot down because I’ve been too scared, or didn’t think I could pull it off, or something equally shallow and vapid.

It’s been phenomenally irritating. As the stretch where I didn’t write became longer it became easier to come up with reasons why I shouldn’t. And it’s got to the point where I’ve just got sick of the inside of my own head being a lazy, scared prick, and I just want to do what I enjoy.

In the past, I wrote because I want people to like me. Wanting people to like me is the main cause behind the majority of the things I do, as I’m sure it is for many people. That’s still the main reason I write publicly, but that’s now tied in with the idea that I want to improve. Where I blog most of the time it involves having an idea for a title, or something that I found interesting/annoying, or stealing an idea from someone else, and then just hammering out 500 words on the topic blindly, without really thinking in through, and then not reading it back before I posted it. To be honest, that’s what this post is going to be. But I want to change what comes next. I want to be a better writing, and a better entertainer. This is going to be a learning curve for all of us. I want to plan properly, come up with proper ideas and arguments, and write real jokes. I love comedy, and journalism, and politics, and I want to be good at them. Mostly because I want people to like me, but also because I want to like myself.

I’m not going to read this back, because I know I’ll think I’m whining (I am) and I’ll bottle out. NO. JUST POST THAT DAMN THING. STOP BLOODY FRETTING.IT’LL BE FINE. Probably. Or I might finally start receiving the hate mail I’ve been suspecting is coming my way for years – but that just might be me being pedantic.

Okay. Don’t red it back. Just press send.

Four Trends Women HATE!

So I figured that after Six Trends That Men HATE, is was only fair to do the opposite, the four  trends that women hate. We women can be VERY picky, when it comes to what our men wear. Assuming we’re straight. Jesus, imagine writing a fashion article aimed at lesbians? It would be shit, wouldn’t it? They don’t know ANYTHING about fashion.

1. Body hair. This new trend has struck up recently of men not shaving their body hair. I know, GROSS? They think it’s okay to just wonder around with it all on show, but it isn’t. I don’t want a flash of stinky pit hair every time you hail a taxi. Thanks.
2. Going topless. So guys at the beach (and even on the streets in summer), have been going topless. Everything on show. In front of CHILDREN. Come on lads, no one wants to be having a nice swim, then catch a glimpse of nip. There are children around, jeez! Save it for your wives.
3. Pants on show. Having the top of your pants peeking over your jeans isn’t classy. It just makes you look cheap.
4. Obey snapbacks. Really?

Check out the Six Trends That Men HATE

Six Trends That Men HATE!

I’ve seen quite a lot of articles on variations of ‘trends men hate’, or ‘looks that turn men off’. Now, I know quite a bit about fashion, and even more about men. You have to feed them at least three times a day and always make sure they have clean newspaper.  So naturally, I thought I would lend you my worldly wisdom and tell you the six trends that men REALLY don’t want to see you wearing. And if you do wear them, you will never get laid again EVER.

1. Wings. Got tiny wings sprouting from your shoulder blades? Slice ‘em off, ladies. Being able to hover three inches off the ground will not help your posture. And they just make you harder to catch.
2. Acknowledging you have a vagina in any way apart from taking your knickers off. Accidently drop a tampon on the way to the loo? Carrying your new born baby? Ew, ladies, please. Guys don’t need to see that, your vagina is for THEIR PLEASURE. Keep your private life at home. Have some self-respect.
3. Cutting off one boob, in the manner of an Amazonian queen. Ok, well It’s great that you can easily fire a bow and arrow now, but that won’t get you a husband. It’s just kinda intimidating.
4. Floor length capes. They’re baggy and unappealing. If you got it, you should flaunt it. No one cares if you’re the Ice Queen of Narnia, honey. Aslan may go for the ‘great and powerful’ look, but he’s a lion, not the guy from the office.
5. Ram horns. Some say they show inner power, strength, and experience as a skilled warrior. We say you have bone growing out of your head, and that’s just creepy. No.
6. Over-sized hoodies. Because lord forbid you should actually be comfortable. 

Check out the Four Trends That Women HATE

A Moment Of Calm

I’ve been terrified of the dark since way before I can remember. I slept with a light on until I was thirteen. Until I was about fifteen walking down my road without a torch could reduce me to tears. Even now, being alone in the pitch black without my anti-monsters duvet is one of the worst situations I can be in. It’s not quite at phobia level, but it’s pretty bloody close.

Which is exactly why I went to sit on my own, on a cold, windy hill in the pitch darkness with a thermos of chamomile tea. Well, it isn’t the exact reason – but it did seem like a very, very stupid thing to do.  The actual reason I did it was to look at the sky. Stargazing Live is back on at the moment, and a solid hour of Dara O’Briain and Brian Cox begging you to go outside and look up is surprisingly effective.

Down where I live, there’s one hill which is particularly good for looking at stars, and that was my destination this evening when I set off with my camera, torch, tea and compass. I don’t own a telescope that I can use, so I was going off my own eyes and the awful exposure on my camera.

Getting there was bad – it’s a short walk, but I was stupidly tempted to just go home and never leave again. I didn’t. I persevered, and was rewarded. Sat on a cold hill, with two layers of socks and a bag shaped like a hedgehog, I saw the stars. Properly. I looked at them and said their names (but only in my head, in case any murderers were listening).  When I’d got mostly used to them, I turned off the torch, and shoved on my iPod. Halfway through Gypsy, by Lady Gaga, I saw my first shooting star.

I’m not having the best of times at the moment. I’m usually either stressed or lonely, but sometimes I have moments of startling calmness, where I become very, very proud of myself. That was one of them; sitting in the dark and not being scared, watching a shooting star fall from Orion’s belt.

If you live somewhere where the stars are visible, go and look at them. Properly.  I promise you won’t regret it.

Unfortunately, my camera isn’t good enough to get shots of the stars, but I got quite a nice one of the moon.

When I Am Prime Minister

I will...

1. Be able to spell Prime Minister on the first attempt
2. Be able to answer a question directly
3. Think if stuff that’s going on outside London
4. Only go to war if I really, really need to and not just because I'm bored
5. Stop letting America boss us about
6. Stop pissing about with ‘cigarette tax’ and just ban them (might be unpopular)

I will not…

1. Fiddle expenses
2. Use tax money to throw big parties
3. Build a big train from London to Birmingham un less I have made Birmingham much nicer
4. I will not make Birmingham much nicer
5. Give any extra money to other MPs just because we’re BFFs
6. Spill soup on any important documents, even if they’re bad (or leave them on trains)

Laws I shall make:

1. Any MP heard making an offensive remark shall get an egg thrown at them to show the physical manifestation of the metaphorical egg on their face.
2. Dress down Friday
3. If MPs must have a second home, they are regulated to a very small flat in Croydon
4. Crimes to be rated on a ‘naughtiness scale’ to decide punishment (not believing that I’m going to be Prime Minister is a 3)
5.  The mayor of London is not allowed to be better than me

Please vote for me

A Story

I went to the doctors last week. My ear was being funny, and there was this weird spot on my neck, and I just wanted to make sure everything was okay. He fiddled about with my head in general for about twenty minutes, while I thought about what cake would be available at work the next day, then booked me in for a blood test and sent me off. He prodded the lump on my neck one last time. "I think it's a blocked lymph node," he said. "Of course, worst case scenario it could be cancer. Right, bye!"

That's not a nice thing to hear. Naturally when I had found the lump in my neck, the word cancer crossed my mind, but never seriously. I thought about how cool I would be, so chill and relaxed. The cool cancer patient. Then a medical professional said the word, and then then I was crying on my mums shoulder while a nurse handed me some ear drops and tried not to look worried. 

I had the blood test done, and after they didn't ring me after two days, started to relax. Eventually, I rang them, and they said I was anemic but could I come back and give them some more blood please. I did, and it was fine, and I wined at the lovely new doctor until she said that my white blood cell count was fine and that I should probably chill out now. 

I knew cancer was very unlikely. It's at the end of a very long list of things that the lump might be - I'm still not actually sure. Even if it was cancer, it would almost certainly be curable. Even so, when he said cancer, there was a space of roughly six hours where I genuinely thought I was going to die. In hindsight this was dumb, but it's kind of inexplicable when someone throws that word at you.

It was surprisingly telling. Not once did I think of the wedding I would never have, or the children I'd never know. I thought about how I would never be prime minister, I'd never break Hollywood, I'd never have anything ever published by the Guardian. Which was awful. And also very good. Sometimes I worry that I'll grow out of the "I don't want kids" phase, and now I know I won't. I know that's not for me. I want adventure and ambition, and I'm proud of that. Thank you mister doctor man for not mincing your words. 

Sorry this isn't written very well. It's nearly 1am, and I stopped making my bed because I had some words in my head that I wanted to put out before I went to sleep. I'm not going to spell check anything, I just wanted to tell you the story.
Funny posts soon, about waitress and growing up. All the best to you, whoever reads this x

How I Plan My Blog Posts

I thought I'd show you how I plan my blog posts today. I wish I could say that it's a time consuming process, that I put a lot of effort into. Here's a picture of the plans I've written in the last six months;

That's it. That is literally it.

It's not even spelled right.

I Love Science, But Sometimes It Makes Me Sad

Science is great. Before I went to secondary school and found out the science teachers were awful and the English teachers were divine, I always thought I would go into some branch of science when I grew up. When I was four I wanted to be an archaeologist. By the time I was nine I wanted to do forensics. When I was about ten I briefly looked at physics, and then quickly shut the door again. I still do like science a lot, just not in an academic sense. It's no secret that I have a bottomless pit of love for Brian Cox. Indeed, when the trailer for his Science Of Doctor Who lecture came up on my telly box, I squealed so loudly that my mother left the room.

But sometimes science does bad things, and that makes me sad. This afternoon while out adventuring in the Welsh countryside with my dad, we came across a fish farm. We didn't think it was a fish farm at first, because it looks like a front for a shady James-Bond-villain type operation. We googled it, and it turns out it is in fact, a fish farm. Which is fine, it itself. It is in fact the only producer of sea bass in the UK, so there we go. They're very proud of themselves because they use fancy, fishy technology, which means that the fish grow faster. They also keep them very densely stocked, so the fish hardly have any room to move freely. Under normal circumstances the fish would suffer very high stress level from these conditions, so to compensate they put extra oxygen in the water to calm them down. 
I kind of think the fish would be better off with just a bit more space. Although the company website claims they're happy, I'm not entirely sold. They were very cramped. It's like a massive fish shopping center near Christmas when people are running out of time do do the shopping, only instead of getting some new shoes, you get eaten in the end. 

The other thing, which I think is a little bit worse, is the 'cockroach backpack app' which the BBC reported on today. I know the BBC has to maintain an even view and stay on the middle ground, but luckily, I don't. I can be as biased and annoyed as I like. And I am very, of both.
It's a horrible idea. In an attempt to 'encourage children to take an interest in neuroscience', an app has been developed which links a mobile phone to a chipboard glued to a cockroaches back, after it's antennae have been removed, and part of it's shell sandpapered off. Two little needles are pushed into it's head, which allow whoever has the app to control in which direction the insect moves. There's a small plethora of issues with this. For one, no, I don't care that it's only a cockroach. The idea that humans should be placed in a position of importance over all other creatures is both mean, and creepy. Just because it's  gross, does not mean we should be permitted to go around wildly torturing it. If someone did the same operation on a human, a horse, a dog or a hamster there would be outcry, and the RSPCA would be sent in lickedy split, on the double. So be nice to cockroaches, yeah? They're ew, but they've never shoved a mind-controlling circuit into your brain. Another point is is the reasons the manufacturers have for making it.   They say that it encouraged kids to develop in interest in neuroscience. No it doesn't. It says to kids "here, you like hurting small things, hurt this one WITH AN IPHONE, BECAUSE THOSE ARE COOL AS WELL!" No child will be piloting a cockroach thinking "This is great, I'm going to try and cure depression when I grow up." Not any child that I know, anyway.

Finally, I'll end on a slightly petty note, because I do that quite well. According to the creators the backpacks "allow students to do graduate level research early in life". THAT'S NOT A GOOD THING. GET GRADUATE STUDENTS TO DO GRADUATE RESEARCH. STOP TRYING TO SHIFT IT ONTO KIDS SO YOU CAN GET AWAY WITH BULLYING TINY INSECTS, YOU NASTY, INSUFFERABLE, MISPLACED ELECTRICIANS. I hope the kids pilot the cockroaches into your soup.


PS, I'm doing a re-haul of my blogroll. If you have a blog you want me to promote then leave a comment with a link and I'll have a look. Triple chances if I know you. 

My Vagina Is Not Your Income

Disclaimer: If you formally employ me, or are a relative, it’s probably best if you don’t read this. It would just embarrass both of us.

People spend quite a lot of time talking about vaginas these days. Lord knows I do. I tried to think about something else to blog about for a change, realised I only know about feminism and lesbians, and gave up. So vaginas it is.

I find it quite alarming how they seem to have developed monetary value within the last twenty years or so. To have a vagina worthy of modern, media standards it has become necessary for women to effectively pay rent. At minimum women are now expected to at least ‘spruce up’ their downstairs, whatever the hell that actually means, and while the cost of razors totted up over a life time may not exactly purchase a house, it could probably buy you quite a few more fancy dinners and tickets to see Westside Story than you would have had otherwise. For the slightly more hardcore who fancy waxing, it becomes vital to fork out roughly once a month to employ someone to hot glue strips of fabric to the single most sensitive area of your body, and then violently rip them off again. Which is painful both physically and financially. For the ones who have signed a contract to the Fancy Genital overlord, vajazzling comes into play. The singular and ancient art of paying someone to stick rhinestones and bits of glitter to a place where there should be fluff thankfully seems to be losing the sudden burst of popularity it had, and personally I think we’re better off for it leaving. If I remember rightly, there were about two weeks in 2011 where everyone turned round and shouted ‘pejazzle’ (vajazzling's male equivalent) at each other, screamed and never, ever mentioned it again.

I still don’t really know what the point is in the ripping and the hot glue and the glitter. Some people seem to think it’s nice for someone you’re having sex with, but if your partner won’t sleep with you unless you have diamonds stuck to your foof, I think you might be sleeping with the wrong people. Frankly they should be grateful that they get to sleep with you at all, without kicking up a fuss about whether or not a grumpy beautician has tidied up for them first.

Speaking of Lady Ga-gardens, Lady Gaga apparently stripped off in London’s G-A-Y club last week. Some gay men witnessed her bottom. It was big news. Just like the time every female celebrity ever got into a car at a funny angle while wearing a skirt, or wore something chiffon based under bad lighting. Do you know when I last read an article about a bloke accidently showing a bit too much skin? Never, that’s when. No one gets paid for writing about men having a touch too much champagne before getting into a cab badly. No man has ever thought “Jesus, I possess pubic hair, something both men and women have had since the dawn of time. I should probably RIP IT OUT ON THE OFF CHANCE SOMEONE UNEXPECTEDLY TRIES TO HAVE SEX WITH ME IN A VERY BRIGHTLY LIT ROOM.” We have developed a culture where we pay people make sure our vaginas look good enough, on the off chance someone else is being paid to write about it. You might as well keep a small till in your knickers, just in case.

Unless you like doing all that, which is fine. If you want to, please be my guest. But just ask yourself first if you’re doing it because you like having genitalia that doubles up as a handy disco ball, or because you’ve just been told you should like it by someone else. If it’s the latter, I suggest you either ignore them or have a very lengthy chat. If it’s the former, please come to parties with me. At the end of the day, vaginas were meant to push out screaming humans, and give birth (ooh, satire). Do whatever you like with yours but make sure you do it for you and not to attract sexual partners with the brains of magpies.

Cheers. 

Talking Mostly To Myself (No, Really)

I just watched Easy A. It was pretty good, I recommend it if you haven't seen it. No, just so we're clear I'm not here to confess all the people I haven't slept with. This isn't so much a public blog as a personal one. I know it's been quite quiet lately. I have some ideas that I want to work on, but I've got a bit of a mental block. I don't know why. I had a bot of a lull over summer where everything got really quiet, and I sort of faded slightly. It was weirdly static. I thought things would be better now, and it's improving but slowly. I have a job. I signed my first employment contact, which was fun bus also, y'know, mind numbingly terrifying. I like my job. The people are nice and they taught me how to use a coffee machine. A proper one. With fancy buttons and levers and stuff. I feel a little bit like a scientist. I carried a tray of champagne glasses and didn't drop any. I'm still having driving lessons. I'm still awful, but the clutch has stopped making funny noises, and I remember to indicate so I think I'm improving. I'm still doing English lessons, which are still amazing and I may or may not be writing this as an attempt warm up for the last leg of an essay. I spend a lot of time on busses.

I realize that blogging total nonsense from my life is probably really annoying to most people, but it's quite cathartic. Having spent the last three hours reliving the last episode of The Wrong Mans in my pajamas, it's nice to remind myself that I'm not still stuck in the blank phase and I do have stuff to get on with. Quick note to NT - sorry you had to stay in my house during that. It was grim, and I was quietly miserable. I think. I don't really know, every time I'm sad I always assume I'm either PMSy, bored or hungry and have since forgotten what strong emotions really are. I bought some fairy lights for my bed, because I wanted to be a cliche. I rewatched the first series of The Mighty Boosh and remembered what I'd missed. I remembered being being fourteen and dancing with my Dad in a room full of people dressed as Noel Fielding's imagination while Bob Fossil mucked about on stage. It was nice, in an embarrassing, fourteen year old sort of way. Sometimes I forget I was fourteen once, but so does everyone else. Remember you used to be dumb. Remember you're a womble. 

Christ I hope no one reads this. Go watch Easy A, I beg of you.
Sorry I talk about TV so much. I have a media A level. 

What Not To Say In A Driving Lesson

I'm trying to get in the habit of writing a little bit more regularly, so here's a dumb list blog, because I haven't done one in a while. I'm also not bothering to type it up on Word first, so it's back to the good, old fashioned, Az-can't-spell-type-or-use-grammar days. I should also point out that I'm drinking a combo of 'glitter juice' (pomegranate juice with gold glitter, thanks M&S), and vodka. It's a cracking combo, but I am worried that I'm going to turn into liquid music. Or Robots In Disguise. I don't mind which. 

Most of you probably know that I'm learning to drive at the moment. It's going well, although I have put my foot in it a few times. Here's some stuff you shouldn't say in a driving lesson. Not all of them are me; I'll let you guess which ones are direct quotes.

1. "I'm really worried that I'm just going to run someone over. Possibly on purpose." 
2. "Have you ever rolled a car? Do you want to try?" 
3. "What would you do if I drove into that wall?"  
4. "Have you ever done 80mph in  hearse? I have." 
5. "Why's it making that noise? Have I changed gear? Which gear am I in? Oh God, the noise is getting worse. The car hates me, WHY DOES THE CAR HATE ME?!"
6. "What colour was that traffic light?"
7. "The brake is that little lever behind the steering wheel, I would assume."
8. "Well, I've driven a lorry before, but I was drunk that time, so I don't think it counts."
9. "Can you just grab the wheel for me? I need to re-do my eyeliner."
10. "OH SHIT, IT'S THE FUZZ."

Pointed reminder: I did NOT say all of these. I know the brake is that little button on the ceiling.

Joining The Debate Of The Genders

Ah, there’s nothing to beat the promise of a newly opened, blank Work document. Yeah, so it’s been a while, but I was busy. Also lazy. Mostly lazy.  I did get a job though. I haven’t actually started it yet, but I did get one. So that’s something.

For a while, I’ve wanted to take on the age-old question: which hurts more, period pains, or getting kicked in the balls. I will tell you here and now, it is period pains. The question used to be a kick to the balls, or childbirth. Ahahahaha, nice one, patriarchy. I’d like to see a man be kicked in the balls and end up screaming in agony for twelve hours, with a cocktail of drugs and the possibility of having to be cut open while still wide awake. We once asked our old English teacher what it was like to have a caesarean. “Horrible,” She said. “It feels like someone’s opened you up, and scooped out all of your organs, because all of the weight leaves so quickly. I felt empty. And in pain. There was a lot of blood.”

But we know how rubbish giving birth is. We can rant, and yell about it for hours. There have been books written about it, and it gets pretty decent coverage, media wise. We all know the image of a woman propped up in a hospital bed, dripping with sweat, screaming, with her BFF and her mother holding her legs in the air. We don’t talk about period pains. There’s no woman on telly, lying on the floor punching whatever’s nearby, while crying and swearing I the same breath. No book character has ever been forced to not go and punch the baddy because their legs age too much. And I’m pretty sure this is why men idiots people who have never experienced PMS think that it isn’t so bad, and white it off as women being hysterical. As was the case for any woman with a mental illness, until about sixty years ago.* No one ever talks about PMS, because we know that since it will simply happen again in two to three weeks time, we may as well just pop some pain killers and get on with it. However being kicked in the balls happened rarely, and only if you’re acting like an idiot, and therefore deserve it. Or if you play rugby, I suppose. I wouldn’t know, organised sport give me hives.

I was lucky enough to get a group of friends who do talk about period pain. This turned out to be amazingly useful:  one friend tends to throw up and faint around her time of the month. When it came to half seven in the morning, and I was just waking up on the kitchen floor so I could vomit again, I knew it was probably just PMS and there was no need to call an ambulance. When I opened my eyes, I could see the cat sitting next to my face, licking his paws. This is how I will die, I thought. With my cat waiting to eat my flesh. It was a cheerful day, all told.

There was a woman on twitter a few days ago, talking about the fact that she used to get nosebleeds at the same time as cramps. As well as smacking of poor biological wiring, it’s also not something generally caused by being kicked in the balls. Count yourselves lucky, dammit.

I think recently, however, we have got better at talking about the sheer, driving agony of PMS. And I hope we carry on. It may be a sore subject, but as with the state of the economy and Miley Cyrus’s career, it’s better if we talk about it. Last year while on holiday, I found myself face down on the sofa, physically unable to move from the pain. And my step brother made the noble decision to remain in the same room and talk to me. Which was nice, and also surprising. Which is why my little nugget of advice for now is to all those with a uterus: talk about it, have a cry but ultimately don’t let it stop you from being fierce. To all those without a uterus: be sympathetic without being patronising, and don’t act in a way that results in foot to genital contact. Idiots.

Sorry for the over-zealous use of italics. That’s a lie; I’m not sorry at all.

*Fun story – my great-great-Grandmother had eight children and an abusive husband. This led to her having mild depression, something that could be treated with bed rest and a divorce. Instead, she was locking in an asylum and accused of being mad, simply because she was unhappy with her home life. In the end, from what we know from her medical records, she died of influenza after she’d been there for several years, time which she spent crying and begging to go home, until she did eventually go mad. Moral of the story: women know when shit’s going down, and accusing them of lying/being hysterical/attention seeking LEADS TO BAD THINGS.

I’ll see ya’ll soon. I’ve got a lot of stuff left to shout about.

                                                                                                                                                     

Chancellor Of The Exchequer? I Hardly Know Her!

I think it’s very, very important to make fun of politicians. Very important. In the age of the career politician, they seem to have become this slightly inhuman creature, wriggling their fingers and cackling together in corners.  They come either at Mr Burns, from The Simpsons, or kids in the playground, having a squabble.  “Yes, I know the economy has gone to shit, BUT LABOR STARTED IT.” And when you look at it that way, it’s really hard to not make fun of them. I don’t think we really acknowledge just how much power these men (yes, men. In the UK the ratio of male to female politicians is alarming, but that’s another story for another time) is utterly terrifying. They can have power over our jobs, our houses, who we can marry, if we’re allowed to leave or re-enter the country. I recently finished reading ‘The Handmaid’s Tale’, by Margret Atwood. I had to hide under my bed for most of it. If you haven’t read it, I suggest you do, and then I suggest you cry.

I like making fun of politicians. It briefly brings some of the power back to us. George Osborne may take benefits away from the disabled, but ahahahaha, he looks like a confused six year old. I want to do that thing where you pinch his cheeks and wibble his face. I have nick-named him Puppy, much to the annoyance of my family – who like watching the news in the evening.

Recently the news came out that Nick Clegg would like to carry on the coalition after the next election. Of course he would, he’d miss cuddle time with David Cameron. 

I’m not even going to start on Ed Balls. I’ll let you fill in your own jokes there.

Receiving A Level Results

As you may or may not know, today was A Level results day. Most people who I know are very happy with their results - and congratulations to them. And to you, if everything's gone wonderfully to plan and you're  a happy bunny.

However, please remember that exam results DO NOT PROVE YOUR WORTH AS A HUMAN BEING. At the end of the day it's a small black letter on a piece of paper, allowing you access to universities and Tory leadership. Not everything that is good or useful is measured at exams - and anyone who tells you otherwise is either a conservative dictator or not very good in bed. 

If you didn't get what you wanted, please remember it's not the end of the world. You have time to redo any exams you want, or take new ones entirely  Or you might get a job and find that you actually really like it a lot, and decide not to go to uni and experiment vaguely with your sexuality,  but instead open a dog grooming parlor and marry a Shirley Bassey  look-a-like.

You are worth more than some letters on a piece of paper. Unless you did have your eye on Tory leadership, in which case you may have to rethink a few things. 

100th Post and Delving Into New Media

THIS IS MY 100TH BLOG POST.
Well done me, pat on the back, champagne all round. 

I've spent quite a while wondering what I should actually write for my 100th post, and then I decided not to write anything, and instead took a leaf out of Lauren's book and took up video blogging.

Don't worry, there will be an actual post up soon. But for now, enjoy.

Everything I Touch Is Homoerotic Subtext - Even Top Gear

I am not ashamed to say that I have always loved Top Gear. My family will very happily settle in front of the telly whenever it's on, slowly falling asleep during any bits that are actually about cars, and then instantly perking up whenever an adventure is started. I'm pretty sure we're not the only one's like this. I don't know a single person who watches Top Gear for the cars. I know about three people who know what the words 'traction', 'horsepower' and 'torque' mean in context, and I'm not one of them. However, I know about a million billion people (roughly) who can cheerfully jump start a conversation with "Remember when Clarkson crossed the channel in a flat bed truck? Ahh, I thought they were gonners that time."

Despite the general Top Gear-y love most people in England seem to share, almost every conversation about the show goes one of two ways. A) "I liked the time they raced a train through France." or B) "Clarkson's a prick, and they're just a group of offensive old men dicking* about." The second one seems to come up rather a lot these days, usually on Radio 4 - or more accurately The News Quiz, a show so daringly middle class it makes me laugh and wince at the same time. And fair enough, there's a possibility that James May and Richard Hammond do actually know what it's like living in the actual world, but the majority of the time anything either of them may have to say is drowned out by the dulcet tones of Clarkson, spouting rubbish about anyone who has a vagina, a copy of the Guardian, a different skin tone, appearance or opinion to him. 

However, after a while, and a fair bit of squinting, it does slowly become apparent that Clarkson may be a troll - spouting total and utter nonsense just to get a rise out of anyone and anything he can. But once you've squinted at him for that long, it becomes quite hard to stop. And then you squint some more, and it suddenly becomes remarkably clear that Top Gear is possibly the most remarkably homoerotic program that can be put on in front of a UKIP supporter without them noticing.  

At the end of the day, it boils down to being a show about three grown men giggling together in sheds. The go on holiday together, and buy each other presents. They drive around lovely scenery together, and if placed in one car  they usually end up in each others laps. Most of the show is seeing how many times they can say the word 'penis' without getting told off by the BBC, and if The Stig (a man not allowed to talk, move of his own accord or take off his dark mask) isn't a little but kinky, I don't know what is. 

When the show first started, it was an actual car show. Viewers wanted to know about motoring, how good the new VW was, and how quickly can that chap from Mock The Week go around a race track. Not so much any more. Where the three boys used to bicker about anything going, and be needlessly cruel, the majority of the joy from Top Gear now comes from watching them cheekily grin at each other when they make silly little jokes, or nudge each other when they get something wrong, and over react to the full extent of the script. 

So you go Top Gear. I'm proud of you. Over the years you've managed to tone down Clarkson, make James May cool, and slowly drip feed the gayest friendship after Holmes and Watson to some of the most hardcore right-wingers in the UK. I'm proud.

Point made.

*According to my spell check, 'dicking' isn't a word. I don't care spell check, it's three am and I just had to silently make a sandwich in  dark room. I'll improvise with my swearing if I want to.

How To Politics.

Fun fact: I can vote. This is both excellent and also alarming. Excellent because it means I live in a democratic society (cool) and that I have a (small) say in how my country is run (also cool). It's alarming because until about two years ago I had less than no idea about what a politic was (not a typo for once). But then I decided to try and understand whatever the hell is going on, and now I can make a half decent joke about Vince Cable, and know when to make sad sounding noises when someone's talking about NHS reform. Here is a handy guide:

1. Get a newspaper. I don't care which one, also the Daily Mail isn't doing you any favors. The Guardian, Independent and Telegraph all work well. Now read it. Read all the bits that have long words and percentage symbols in. Read all the bits next to photos of nervous cabinet members and angry nurses/teachers/builders. Then read it again. Read it until you can accurately guess the meanings of the long words from the context. 
2. Watch BBC news. Get some cake and a cup of tea, put the news on and watch it until you're so cross you have to get more cake. Repeat until there is no cake left, or your waistline is three times that size it was when you stared.
3. Open two browser tabs. In one, pull up a photo of a politician. I recommend starting with Boris Johnson because he's easiest. In the second tab, pull up a photo of your worst fear. It could be a spider, or a big height, or your grandmothers idea of lunch. Whatever works best for you. Now look at Boris for ten seconds. Now look at your worst fear for ten seconds. Repeat until the sight of Boris strikes a cold, icy blade of fear into your heart. Do the same for David Cameron, Nick Clegg, ect. ect. When you run out of politicians, google some more.
4. Realize the key to understanding politics is repetition. Remember you're lazy, and give up. However by this point at least some of it should have sunk in a little bit. 

Best of luck.

No.

Who was the vainest person in all history?

Catherine of Arrogant.

You're welcome.

Henry To Etta: Guest Blog

This is a guest blog, written by my super good friend Lauren (I've posted a couple of her videos before). Enjoy - Az x

An actual conversation with someone on the school bus…
“Well I’m really open minded; I don’t have a problem with gays at all I mean you can’t help who you love. It’s just Transgender people; I don’t like them at all”
Me: “Well, why not?”
“It’s just abnormal, you know.”
Since my younger sibling is transgender I explained (calmly and clearly, without losing it) what transgender is.
“Oh well, that doesn't seem that bad. I just don’t like it when they do it randomly”

My little sister Etta is transgender, she is 9.
A lot of people seemed either shocked or confused when I tell them this. I’d show them a picture and they look at me and say… 
“That’s your little brother though, why? Aww, must be a phase”
Nope, this is not a phase. I know that for a fact. Since she was 2 or 3 she played with my toys rather than my brother’s. She preferred pink and she started nicking my long tops and wearing them as dresses. Etta is also autistic so at first we thought it was something to do with the autism, but after some researching we found out that she was Transgender. The older she got the stronger this desire to be a girl became. So no, this is definitely not just a “phase”
The best way to explain Transgender to you is that Etta is a girl trapped in a boy’s body. 
Girl’s brain, Boy’s Body.
She refused to have her hair cut; she now has longer hair than me. She prefers all the female characters in her favourite TV shows to the male characters and now everything she owns is pink. We have a running joke that she is more girlish than me, my sister and my mum put together. (She’s also much prettier) 

And If you haven’t already noticed, I call her ‘she’ rather than ‘he’.
Today is a big day for Etta, from today Etta is now known as a girl at her school (and in September it will be on the records that she is “Female”). She can wear the girl’s uniform, she can use the girl’s bathroom and she will now be known as a girl to the teachers. This is fantastic! She is now being acknowledged for who she is and her class mates are fine with it (which is an added bonus really) 
Yesterday a transgender expert went into Etta’s school and had an extended assembly with the school to explain Transgender. 
As an example she asked a boy to stand with her. She asked him “If I said you weren’t allowed to wear boy’s clothes, you had to wear dresses. That you’re not allowed to play with your toys, because they’re boy’s toys how would you feel?”
“Well, I wouldn’t like it. Because I’m a boy”
“That’s how transgender people feel”
It’s a good point actually. Because Etta knows that she is a girl.

Some of the adults/parents are not so supportive. My family do get some rather hateful stares thrown at us when walking Etta to school. There was one example of a parent holding the large metal gates for some children, the parent saw us and closed the gate on Etta. Thankfully Mum was fast enough to catch the gate before it hit Etta in the head, but still. 
It’s quite upsetting when people think that my mum has forced this on Etta, because it’s “Cute”.
And this is usually when I start to get angry. 
Why the hell would we force this on Etta? 
When researching the topic I have heard of suicide attempts and self-harming incidents by Transgender children as young as 6 … 6 year old! Not just because of bullying but because they feel so uncomfortable with their bodies and they’re hurt that people don’t see who they are and accept it.
Here’s an example of a Transgender 6 year-old’s shocking suicide attempt from the Huffington Post.

“Was there a tipping point?

Well, one day we had a blow-up in Target. It was Halloween, and up until then we'd allowed Danann to pick costumes, like a witch or vampire-princess, which were female but not particularly feminine, more gender-neutral. But this particular Halloween, Danann saw a very frilly Southern Belle dress and just had to have it. I said no, as I knew Bill wouldn't approve. Danann began kicking, screaming, trying to hurt me. I got the kids into the car, when Danann went ballistic, scratching herself to the point of bleeding, hitting her head on the car, trying to break the window.  I locked the car doors, drove straight home, and the minute I unlocked the car Danann bolted from the car and ran straight into traffic. She was almost hit. The driver stopped the car and ran over to Danann, asking if she was OK, and Danann said, "Why didn't you hit me? I just want to die. I just want to die and have all of this be over." That's when I knew we needed to change things, because what we were doing clearly wasn't working.”

So yeah, forcing this on Etta is the best idea we’ve ever had!

I’m going to be very truthful to you now; it’s taken a while for me to get to grips with it. I had a dream about two years ago, I dreamt that Etta was a toddler again, she was Henry, Etta looked like a boy and when I woke up again I got upset because I missed my little brother. But then I realized that Etta was never really my little brother, she was just too young to say no to all the boy-ish clothes. I feel awful, awful that I wasn’t the best sister in the world. I’m bad at coping with change and this was quite a big shock. It took me a while to finally call her ‘her’, I have had many thoughts such as “Why can’t he be normal”-“This isn’t fair”-“I want Henry back” But then I did some thinking (and shouting at myself) and I’ve finally seen that I was being insensitive and stupid. Etta is Etta, she is an amazing little girl and I love her. I will never forgive myself for how I thought and how I behaved.
Because Etta is also autistic it’s very hard to hear how she feels. When talking to her you have to be very patient because she sometimes talks through quotes from films and books, it’s confusing but you get the hang of it quite easily. But last night I watched a documentary called “I am Jazz” which was about a transgender child.
All I could do was cry, when Jazz was explaining how she felt I just broke down. For the first time in 7 years I heard what Etta was trying to tell me through another child who was Transgender. 
If you have time, do go watch it, it may change your mind about Transgender people/children. 
I’m writing this because it needs to be explained, I was scared of explaining this because I was afraid that people would take Etta the wrong way, manipulate what I say and tell a wrong grotesque story which puts her in a bad light.
I love my little sister and I am terrified of that happening. I hope that we have left this manipulative nature behind us.

Thank you so much to Lou for writing that, she emailed it to my this morning and I immediately emailed her back saying "Can I blog this?" I hope it helps make everyone think, and makes people happy. Thanks all.
PS I reviewed a play this week, if you want to read it.